Laura was about out the door, headed for the baby shower of one of her friends. I was sitting on the living room couch trying to decide whether to mow the lawn or work on a story that had been giving me trouble. Almost as an afterthought, Laura stepped over to the couch and bent to give me a kiss. “Bye honey. Do I look okay? The car doesn’t need gas, does it? I’d hate to spill gas or anything on my new dress.”

“Check,” I said.

“Does that mean it does or it doesn’t?” Laura asked.

“It means you look great. It means the car has plenty of gas. You got your present? You know the way?”

“Check,” Laura said. Then she laughed. “When I was a little girl my dad told me that gas stations didn’t have self-service. When you drove your car in a man would come rushing out to fill the tank, clean the windows, check the oil.”

“Check your oil, Ma’am?”

“Right.”

I wasted no time moving my hand to her dress. It wasn’t a long dress, but still I had some lifting and bunching to do, and soon I was able to check the oil.

That took a good dozen minutes or more. Erring on the side of caution, I felt it best to top her off.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” I said when the job was done.

“Whew,” Laura gasped “You better hope you didn’t make me late.”

“Drive safe, and text me when you get there,” I told her.

Half an hour later Laura’s text arrived. “I’m here. The drive was like a dream. I’m going to have to have my oil checked more often.”